


Mind/Body/Spirit Drabbles

by Macremae



Series: Mind/Body/Spirit [4]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Multi, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Various drabbles from the universe of the series.





	1. Anako/Dick Sickfic

When Geiszler walks in on Anako drinking an above-average amount of NyQuil, they know assumptions will be made.

“Before you start yelling like a lunatic,” they say, holding up a hand, “I am taking preventative measures concerning my health.”

Geiszler blinks. “Huh?”

Anako rolls their eyes despite the splitting headache that causes. “I am feeling slightly under the weather. I do not want this to progress further. Thus, the NyQuil.”

It is a testament to their relationship that his first response is, “Wouldn’t that make you drowsy and unfocused?”

“That’s what the Red Bull is for,” they reply. Geiszler grimaces.

“Dude. You’re a medical doctor. How do you think this is a good idea?”

“It’s worked before, it’s going to work now. I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“Not for lack of trying,” Geiszler mutters, then realizes what he just said. “Oh God. Shit, shit, I didn’t mean--”

Anako snickers. “Nah, that’s funny. Good job, Geiszler, you made a joke that landed. Gold star.” They take one last swig of NyQuil and screw the cap back on. “What do you want?”

“This is incredibly ironic considering the situation.” he says, “but I’m here to pick up my prescription.”

They pause and hold up a finger for him to wait while they crack open the can of Red Bull and chug about a fourth. Geiszler’s expression grows more and more upset as they do this. “Jesus Christ, Anako.”

“You soul-bonded with Godzilla, do not tell me how to live my life.” They slam the can onto their desk and lead him into the storage room. There’s a drawer for the various refills of Shatterdome personelle, and Anako finds Geiszler’s bottles with ease. They hand it to him, hand only shaking a little bit. “Don’t have too much fun.”

“You’re pretty sick, aren’t you?” Geiszler says. 

“No,” Anako snaps defensively, “what makes you think that?”

“Your jokes are more camaraderie based than just plain snarky.”

Anako glares at him, headache growing by the second. “I’m not interested in bantering with you, Dr. Geiszler. Go bother your husband.”

He shoots them a grin as he leaves, rattling the pills in their direction like maracas. “Feel better, Doc!”

Usually Anako would mutter under their breath, “Don’t tell me what to do,” but his suggestion is in fact the intended outcome, so they keep their mouth shut for now.

\--

Anako does not end up feeling better.

They realize this when, the next day, they wake feeling like their skin is on fire and someone is rubbing sandpaper up and down their throat. Dick wouldn’t notice a kaiju attack before he’s had his coffee, so they manage to sneak out before then without him getting too fussy. Hopefully Anako can run some tests to figure out what they have and bury the illness in medication before anyone notices.

There’s a reason for this, of course. Dick has seen them after just Drifting with a Kaiju brain, sure, but the nurses ushered him out quickly afterwards. The next time they spoke was when Anako was released, and they’ve managed to keep their episodes private since then. They’ve helped him through a panic attack or two, and he’s brought them dinner when they’re too tired to stand, but nothing of this magnitude. Being the level of sick Anako suspects they are is different. That’s a burden, and they are many, many undesirable things, but a burden is not one of them.

It’s whatever; they’re a fucking doctor for Christ’s sake. They can patch themselves up just as fine as they always have. It’s probably just a bad cold, anyway.

\--

“Mother-goddamn-shitting influenza?!” Anako hisses, crumpling the lab result into a crinkly ball of death. “I am going to jump off a fucking bridge.”

Of course the vaccine didn’t hit the mark this year; absolutely fantastic. It would be fine if it were the rest of the Shatterdome getting sick; that Anako can deal with, but themselves? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Influenza requires regular doses of antivirals, fluids, and bed rest. There may be vomiting involved. Anako will have to-- to take a sick leave.

They are honest to _God_ going to jump off that bridge. No wonder their vision is getting blurry.

The best course of action is to fix what they can in the moment, so Anako grabs the coffee mug on their desk, fills it with tap water, and downs the whole thing. They throw up a minute later.

“Motherfuck,” they gasp, hunched over their trash can and staring dazedly at the (former) contents of their stomach. Food is out, then. Water, yes, but… perhaps a little slower next time. 

Anako knows deep, deep, deep down that the fastest way to get better is to return to their quarters, fill up a water bottle, and sleep for the next several days. It’s what they were taught in med school, and pre-med school, and secondary school, and basically every health class ever. However, the European educational system did not take into account the fact that Anako shows weakness like a Wall of Life patron shows common sense-- that is, extremely rarely, and never in front of the general public. They’re a fucking doctor, and a PPDC one no less. They can muscle through a little common flu. It’s not like people ever _died_ from this thing.

At least, under their watch.

\--

Anako almost thinks they’ve managed to get through day one in the clear when Dick stops by their office bearing lunch. They jerk their head up from studying transcripts (dozing) at the sound of the door opening, and quickly shove their wastebin behind their desk.

“Hey, darlin’,” Dick says cheerily, setting the tray of pad thai in front of them. “How’s your day been?”

“Fine,” Anako says too quickly, and winces at the scratchiness of their voice. Dick picks up on this immediately.

“Geez, that didn’t sound too good. Y’alright?”

“See my previous statement: fine,” they reply. He of course takes this moment to look closer at their face, obviously noticing the bags under their eyes and paler than usual complexion. Anako flinches under his gaze. “What?”

“Ana, hon, are you feelin’ alright? You look a little under the weather.”

“I feel like I’m repeating myself,” Anako says in a clipped voice. “Thank you for the lunch, I will eat it in a minute, have a nice afternoon.”

They should have known from experience that Dick is not one to give up in the face of their rudeness. “Did ya ask one of the other doctors to have a look at you?”

“I already did the tests myself, it’s just a little flu. I’ll be fine.”

Dick’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “The flu?!”

“And now I’m repeating myself repeating mysel--”

“Anako, what are you doing bein’ at work like this!” he exclaims, “You should be in bed!”

They shrug him off. “It’s a waste of time. I can drink water and take antivirals just fine at my desk, and I’m wearing a mask to protect my colleagues from airbornes, see?” They point to their face mask. “Everything’s taken care of.”

“Yeah, ‘cept you!” Dick says worriedly. “Ana, we went through this after your Drift: you can’t just go and do stupid things and expect nobody to worry!”

“This isn’t stupid.”

In a surprising show of frustration, Dick huffs. “Darlin’, I love you, but you’re bein’ real pigheaded right now. Will you please just come back to our rooms with me and go to bed?”

“I don’t need your help,” they hiss, “I can take care of myself. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty damn good at it.”

“Yeah, for a borderline, maladjusted, misanthropic abuse survivor! Being well-adjusted for your circumstances doesn’t mean you’re a functioning human!”

“So now you’re saying I’m an invalid?” they snap. Dick throws his hands up in the air.

“That’s not what I’m sayin’ and you know it! Anako, please, work with me here! I’m not insulting you or sayin’ you can’t take care of yourself, what I’m sayin’ is that you’re sick and you’re exhausted and you need to lie down!”

“You don’t need to--”

“I am your boyfriend! It is my job to take care of you!”

“And I don’t need you to feel obligated--”

“I don’t! I never said I did! I don’t fuss over you ‘cause I feel guilty or anythin’ like that, I do it because you deserve someone who cares about you and I’d really like to be that person!”

Anako’s mouth slams shut. They wrack their brain for a response to that, really try, but everything just fucking _hurts_. Their brain is like mush, and there’s a stabbing pain going through their skull, and more than anything Anako just wants to curl up into a ball and slip into a coma. All the fight drains out of them, and their shoulders slump. “Fine,” they say defeatedly, “fine. I will take a sick day.”

“How ‘bout a sick week.”

“Business week.”

Dick nods firmly. “Deal. Now you’re gonna get back into bed and not get out ‘cept to use the restroom for the next few days, y’hear?”

Anako doesn’t even have the energy to argue anymore. “This is all Dr. Geiszler’s fault somehow. I know it is.”

He doesn’t respond, just helps them out of their chair and back towards the door.


	2. Newt and Anako Character Study

Anako meets him on the roof, a cigarette already between their lips. They don’t acknowledge his entrance, or the way his hands are clearly shaking (at least, harder than usual). There’s the quirk of an eyebrow, and they shift a little to give him space.

“So how are we feeling tonight, Dr. Geiszler.” Not a question. Newt shrugs.

“Weird. Bad. Itchy as hell.”

The eyebrow ascends. “Mental or physical?”

“We both know it’s both, Anako,” he says dryly. 

“You said ‘both’ twice.”

“Fuck you.”

They snort. “Any specific location?”

“Arms,” he says. “Usually arms.”

“Have you put ice on them?”

He nods. “Yeah. It got too cold, though, and the feeling didn’t go away. Hermann’s working, and he wouldn’t really get it anyway, so…” He gestures with a sweep of his arm. “Here we are.”

“Two former razor junkies on the roof of a building. That’ll end well.”

Newt shoots them a glare. “You kinda suck at this whole ‘support’ thing, dude.”

“You called me.”

He glances away. “Yeah. I did.”

“So,” Anako continues, “we arrive at the question: how are you going to use healthy coping skills to manage your cravings?” They use an almost-mocking tone of voice, but Newt knows it’s not to make fun of him. He’d do the same thing if this were reversed.

“I dunno. Talk to you, I guess?” He pauses, paling slightly. “If-- if you don’t mind--”

“If I minded, Geiszler, would I have gotten out of bed, dressed, and trekked all the way up to the roof to sit with you? Use that wunderkind brain of yours; jesus christ.”

He grins slightly at them. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Fuck off.”

They’re both silent for a moment, Anako taking another drag, before they ask, “So what happened?”

Newt glances over at them. “What do you mean?”

“What happened,” they clarify, “to start the urge? There’s usually a cause.”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Life. That’s a valid reason, right?”

They stare back, unconvinced. “Not for people like us. We’re scientists. There has to be cause and effect somewhere.”

Newt blinks at them cooly. “I want to push you off this roof so bad right now.”

“‘Badly’.”

A laugh jumps its way out of his throat. “God. Fuck you, Anako, seriously.”

They roll their eyes at the way his eyes crinkle. “Careful, Geiszler. You’re getting crow’s feet.”

This stops him in his tracks, and his smile disappears. “Oh. Huh. I guess I am.”

Anako gives him a cautious side-eye. “What?”

“No, it’s just--” He pauses. “We’re old, aren’t we? That’s really weird.”

They’re about to say “How so?” when it hits them: it is weird. It’s genuinely _so_ fucking weird. He’s forty-six. They’re forty-three. Middle aged.

“I didn’t think I’d ever make it this far,” Anako says. To anyone else this would be horrifically depressing and mildly self-pitying, but Newt is different. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Most of us don’t. You guys have a ten percent suicide rate, right?”

Anako snorts. “That’s just the succeeded attempts. General is ninety.”

His eyes widen. “Jesus.”

“Yep. Most dangerous mental illness in the world.” A smirk. “Enjoy the experience?”

“I’m not getting back into that shitstorm of a debate with you,” he says, pointing a finger at them.”

“It’s not a shitstorm.”

“Comparably.”

“To what?” they say incredulously, “you and Gottlieb? Don’t fucking compare those two; that’s like a sprinkler to Hurricane Katrina.”

“The property damage was minimal, Anako.”

“You almost broke your kneecap from when he tripped you with his cane.”

Newt almost smiles. “Hindsight twenty-twenty? I probably deserved that.”

“You gonna tell him to his face?”

Another loud laugh. “No. Never. He’d say something about retroactive guilt or whatever.”

Newt swings his legs back and forth over the side of the roof, feeling the air hit his jeans. It’s nice. The feeling of his body moving through space, of taking up space unapologetically, is ironically pleasing. A sign of how far he’s come, all things considered.

“So what happened?” Anako asks again. He sighs.

“I dunno. I was listening to music while cleaning and this song came on, and I just… got lost.”

“In the memories?”

He nods. “Yeah. I liked it as a kid. Very softcore-trauma. Little did I know, or whatever.” Newt glances over at their face for a moment, then back out at the sea. “If you could tell yourself anything back when you were a kid, what would you say?”

This catches Anako off guard. “I-- I’ve thought about it a little, I suppose, but… I don’t know. Stop fussing about your gender? Don’t throw a tantrum at your first communion? Your father won’t call the cops if you punch him in the face so start early?”

“Seriously,” says Newt. They shrug.

“Really, I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t even listen to myself, anyway. I was an angry little kid and an angry teenager and, for most of my adult life up until now, still angry. I continue to be that way, just now with better control. And honestly? That’s not always a good thing.” They elbow him gently. “They don’t want to see us when we’re angry, remember?”

“Not all of them,” Newt reminds them. “We’ve found some gems.”

“They’re also traumatized, Geiszler. They don’t count. Well,” they amend themselves, “Dick is pretty alright, but he’s a special case.” Anako looks at him. “What would you say?”

Newt snickers. “Don’t Drift with that fucking brain by yourself, you dipshit. I mean, me from the future would be able to convince past Hermann it was a good idea, and this whole clusterfuck would never have happened. God, I wish time travel were real.”

“Yeah. That bullshit about people not going back and preventing their trauma so they can ‘continue to reap the lessons’ is bullshit. I mean, it would literally prevent my disorder. I’d love it.”

Newt taps their foot with his own. “Thank you. I know you hate it when people say it, except you secretly love it, but thank you. This _does_ make me feel better.”

“Talking with other human beings generally does, Geiszler,” they reply gruffly, but he can see their blush in the dim moonlight. “As long as I don’t need to give you stitches or get another alien race out of your head, it’s fine by me.”

He kicks his legs again, quiet. The moon and stars reflect on the smooth water below, an almost mirror image of the dark sky above them. The song is still playing in the back of his mind, looping viciously. “It felt good. It was awful, but it felt good. And it hurt. And I hated it. And it reminded me I was alive, which was the worst part of it all.”

Anako sighs. “And it felt good.”

“Yeah. To nobody but people like us.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Never trust a high you can get for free, I guess.”

“Funny of you to call it a high when it grounds you more than anything.”

“Blood loss symptoms would disagree, Anako.”

They shove him, but not hard. “Fuck you. I’m the medical doctor here.”

He smiles back, a contrast to his next words. “I’ve seen the end, I’ve lost the war.”

Anako blinks in recognition. “And burn and bury just like the rest. I know that song.”

“Which mentally ill kid doesn’t?” he replies. “It’s sad. And happy. And sort of has the same dichontomy as… well. You know.”

They do.


	3. Hermann and Anako Pre-Story

The truly difficult thing about saving the world is not the fighting, or the aftermath, or the triumphant explosion of friendship magic or arterial blood or whatever, but getting the monsters to talk. That’s the kicker right there.

 _How many doctors does it take to prep an interspecies Drift?_ Anako thinks dryly, slumping down on the old-smelling couch tucked away in a corner of Gottlieb’s lab. _Fuck around and find out_.

“Gottlieb,” they call, startling the man in question out of falling half asleep over a pile of paperwork. “Give it a rest. I was gone for nearly twenty and you didn’t even blink.”

Gottlieb scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “You know, years ago that would be a point of pride.”

“Yeah, well, now you’re old. Cheers.” They set the two paper cups down between their feet, picking up one and taking a long sip. The hot, milky coffee burns when it hits their tongue. “Come get yours.”

Gottlieb frowns, confused, and takes his cane from where it’s propped beside his desk before walking over to the couch. Without speaking, Anako picks up the second cup, this one with a “T” scribbled on the lid in marker, and hands it to him. “Here.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, but takes the cup and carefully sits down next to them, hissing softly as all the blood is allowed to rush to his feet. “Let’s not use old just yet. Distinguished, maybe.”

Anako snorts. “You’re forty six, and your sweater smells like my grannie’s house just before she died.”

Gottlieb gets that look, the one Anako has come to realize means Geiszler has said the same thing, once. It’s sad and fond at the same time, and they look away. “Speak for yourself,” he finally says softly. “Let’s mind the glass walls.”

Anako chooses not to respond to this, instead taking another sip. They move their feet a few centimeters back and forth on the steel floor, the scuffing sounds the only noise in a quiet, empty lab. All of Gottlieb’s technicians and interns have been gone for hours. They snort. The last line of defense for a man who thinks he’s the only one left fighting. 

The thought makes their stomach twist; Geiszler’s a character and a half to be true, but there’s something about the idea of believing as deeply as he must that you’re truly alone. That all the pushing away you did worked perfectly. They frown. At least he’ll have Gottlieb when all this is over. 

“Do you know what you’re going to do?” they ask without thinking, startling both of them as the silence breaks. Better finish the thought. “After everything. When he’s free.”

Gottlieb presses his lips together tightly, then lets them fall back into place. “Leave. Stay in the area, perhaps, if we can manage good treatment, but not on the base. I don’t want to stay around the people that were so keen to let him rot in that cell, and I don’t imagine he will either.”

“So you’ll be together, then,” Anako says. Hermann gives them an odd look.

“Yes. What do you mean?”

They shift in their spot, wondering how to choose the words to frame the… not worry, God no, but. A thought. They’ve been having it for a while. 

“I didn’t know if you planned to still…” they swallow, the strange, liminal feeling of this conversation spurring them on, “stay with him. After this. Or if you were even something to begin with.”

The look morphs into one that could almost be called insulted. “Of course I will. After all Newton and I haveー” He stops himself, then asks in a slightly steadier voice, “Why on Earth wouldn’t I?”

This time, it’s Anako’s turn to chew on their lips. “I dunno. Assumed.” They swallow, rubbing their thumb across the warm paper of the cup. “You know this is gonna affect him, Gottlieb. The kind of… pain that he’s in right now. That he’s been living with. It doesn’t leave people unchanged.” They turn to look at him, long and calmly scrutinizing. “Are you prepared for that? For him not to be the same person when he comes back?”

Hermann returns their gaze steadily. “I don’t really see a difference.”

Anako shakes their head and turns away, not really knowing what they expected. “You will. Trauma changes the brain chemistry, for Christ’s sake. You can’t live ten years under that kind of abuse and not come out the other side with a few scars.”

“No, I don’t think you understand, Dr. Flaerty,” Gottlieb says, and _this_ gets their attention. They frown, but he continues. “I’m not expecting Newton not to be himself, and that includes how he shows when he’s hurt. We nearly lived together for five years. Do you think I don’t know what he looks like when he’s hurting?”

“I don’t know,” Anako snaps, unable to help themself for a reason they can’t explain, “it took ten years and a strangulation attempt to even realize the man had aliens in his brain. _Do_ you?”

Gottlieb lets out a huff of breath and looks down at his shoes, dull from months without a shine. He seems to sense the apology rising in Anako’s throat before they do, and waves his hand. “No, no, you’re right. I’ve asked myself that ever since that day, and I still don’t have the answer. Why didn’t I notice? How was I so blind? Was I just secretly pleased with the idea that I was right; that he had at last decided he didn’t want to stay?”

Anako finds themself nodding slightly. “Guilt. It can be a hell of a blindfold.”

“Everyone kept saying that it was a good thing; he had gotten his life together. Grown up, finally. Stopped being Newton. Which,” he says with a bitter smile, “I suppose that last bit was true. And I’m fully prepared for him to realize all of that, and hate me for it. He’d have every right to.” Gottlieb sighs, suddenly looking even older. “I feel as if I’ve failed him.”

Anako feels the sudden urge to hug him, this sad little scarecrow of a man, and shoves it down quickly in favor of shaking their head. “You didn’t. You’re near killing yourself right now to get him out of there.” They let out a huff of a half-laugh. “ _That’s_ love. If you can figure out how to do it when you see him againー”

“No,” Gottlieb says, and pauses for a long moment to take a sip of his cooling tea. “No. Loving someone who’s hurt doesn’t make the action any different. But you have to love them for who they are; not what you want them to be. There can’t be a ‘despite’ in the matter.”

Anako can’t help but give him an incredulous look. “You really think you can save him like that? With the power ofー of _love_?”

Gottlieb really laughs this time; a little warmth in it. “Does it really seem so impossible? We built our salvation around it in the first War.”

“Power of love,” Anako echoes, struggling not to roll their eyes. “Seems a bit sentimental, is all.”

“Well yes,” says Gottlieb. “Of course the concept of love alone cannot save a person. No singular idea can. But the action of that love; waking up every day and working to heal together, choosing to be there, committing to that love and the things it entails…” A small smile slips across his face. “Well, that’s what saves you. Not them. You. As in, together. It’s never just a one way street like that.”

Anako’s chest feels funny when he says this; like it’s become a hand reaching out towards his words. “Maybe,” they say, tightening their jaw in case their voice cracks. “If you want to take the storybook way out.”

The smile widens. “Ah, yes. And of course this ends happily. It wouldn’t be a very good story if it didn’t.”

Anako feels the urge to hug him again, but this time reaches out and puts a tentative hand on his upper arm. They both jump a little at the contact. 

“You’ll be right for him, then,” they say, hoping it doesn’t sound too awkward. “I, ah, I had an uncle always say that war loves were the best ones, because you’re always fighting, but the good ones do it for each other.”

After another moment they quickly take their hand away, and gulp down a mouthful of still-hot coffee. Gottlieb looks at them for a moment longer, as if they’re numbers coming together, then down at his own cup.

“It won’t be over. Not until we say it is.”

“Oi. We beat you lot,” Anako says snidely, letting their accent draw out the last word. Gottlieb scoffs, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Ridiculous. I spent university there, nothing more. Do _not_ put me in with the bloody Protestants.”

“And yet you still use the accent. _Right_.”

Gottlieb rolls his eyes delicately (somehow) and takes another drink from his cup, eyes much brighter now, and Anako feels a strange cross between an ache and relief for what Geiszler will be coming home to. He’ll be welcomed back, flaws and all.

Lucky bastard.


End file.
